


We’re Sticking Together

by great_turkey_calamity



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Alex cries a lot bc it’s what he deserves, Angst, Canon Divergence, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Beta Read, TW: Mention of panic attacks, TW: biting nails/skin, but only slightly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:41:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26571583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/great_turkey_calamity/pseuds/great_turkey_calamity
Summary: Alex doesn’t know how to cope with being outed.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 17
Kudos: 205





	We’re Sticking Together

**Author's Note:**

> Hurricane Sally whipped my ass lmao here’s some hurt/comfort

Alexander is spiraling.

The whole world knows his deepest, most profound secret. Sure, it’s not a secret he intended to keep past the first week of November, but it’s one that could impact tons of lives.

His mother.

Her staff members.

Millions of American citizens.

Just thinking about it makes him feel more ill than he’s ever felt before.

He peers down at the mountainous load of newspapers stacked up in the middle of his bed. They’re all strangely fresh for the middle of the night, smelling distinctly of ink. A few hours ago, that smell might have reminded him of Paris— it might have reminded him of Henry. As of right now, it is merely a catalyst for this episode he seems to be slipping into, his head pounding, mouth so dry that it feels like he’s swallowing cotton.  
  


He needs something to distract him from Zahra’s muttering, from the way that she’s aggressively sliding wire hangers across the metal rod installed in his closet. The sounds are grating on his ears, his senses already too heightened to bear listening much longer.   
  


With shaking hands, he reaches for the newspaper on the top of the stack. It’s warm; if they hadn’t just been put out for the masses, he might have thought that it had just been ripped from some sort of bodega after sitting in the blistering heat for hours on end.  
  


He closes his eyes, inhales, exhales, and opens them again, before opening the paper and flipping to the story.

_Should I tell you that when we’re apart, your body comes back to me in dreams?_

He feels his whole world stop after reading that line. He clenches the pages in his fists, arms shaking and ears ringing.

“Fuck,” He croaks, his eyes fixated on that one damned line, reading it over and over again. “ _Fuck._ ” He repeats, this time with feeling. That email was meant for his eyes, and only his eyes. Now anyone in the world could read one of the most intimate conversations of his entire life.

_Dear god._

“Yep,” Zahra replies, tone flippant as she pulls clothing articles out of stacks and yanks things off of hangers. “You dirty did—“ She starts, about to make some snarky, mildly-reprimanding comment, when Alex lets out a loud, heavy sob.

He clamps his hand over his mouth, his attempt to stifle the noise coming much too late. The newspaper has long since been abandoned, cast down to the floor as soon as his eyes had begun to water. His tears burn as they come raining down, staining his face and leaving it coated in a disgustingly sticky film. He’s gasping for air, but it sounds so horrendous and pitiful and so terribly weak that he’s doing anything and everything in his to muffle it. 

Zahra sighs, setting a white button down and a pair of jeans at the foot of the bed. She sits on the opposite side of the bed, close enough, but still giving him space if he needs it.

“C’mere,” She tells him, arms open, gesturing for him to move forward.

For a moment, in his devastated state, Alex just stares at her. Zahra isn’t cold or distant, not by any means, but she’s not usually the type to express affection outwardly. 

“C’mon.” She doubles down, letting him press his face into her shoulder. It’s childish, sure, but she figures that he’s allowed to act however he pleases at the moment.

A tortured wail escapes from somewhere deep down inside of him, simply unable to contain it any longer. Zahra’s shushing him, rocking him back and forth as he clings to her. He needs a lot of things: his mom, Henry, to go to sleep— what he wants, however, is to be able to pull himself together, to think about this from a logical perspective. It feels impossible to do so, knowing that there are people out there who willingly sabotaged his entire life for seemingly no reason. 

“I’m not gonna tell you it’s okay, because it’s not.” Zahra starts, only when Alex has stopped screeching into the fabric of her blouse. “What happened here is fucked up, and there’s just no denying that.” She continues. “And even though this is awful and horrifying, we’re not gonna make you go through it alone. Is there gonna be a lot to go over in the next day or two? Absolutely, but at the end of the day, this is a private, deeply personal matter that’s being exploited, probably for political gain, and we’re not just gonna let it slide, okay? We’ve got your back, kid.” She tells him, and his crying has come to a stop, his chest spasming as he attempts to catch his breath.

He removes his face from her shoulder, and sniffs. His eyes are rimmed red and swollen, his whole face soaked in tears, bottom lip quivering, strands of hair stuck to his forehead.  
  


“I— okay.” He whispers, nodding in a feeble attempt to reassure himself that everything would, in fact, actually be alright. He’s quiet for a beat or two, before piping up again. “What do we— where do I go from here?” He asks, feeling rather hopeless at the moment.

“We start small,” Zahra advises, brushing the hair out of his eyes and face. “We get you dressed and freshened up, then we get some food and water in your system. After that, we’re gonna go on a walk, to see if it helps you clear your head. Until communications specialists and political advisors are done swapping notes and talking to your mother, you’re just gonna take it five seconds at a time, got it?”

Alex nods, and she claps him on the shoulder.

“Alright, then. Let’s get started.”

He braces himself on her as he struggles to get dressed, wobbling on his legs, completely disoriented. After accomplishing this bare-minimum of a task, he doesn’t feel any better, but he certainly feels a bit more stable.

“Alright, we’re already on our way,” Zahra breathes, scooting him out of his bedroom and down one of the many long, empty halls. “Let’s see about getting you something to eat.”  
  


Alex doesn’t respond, just letting Zahra lead the way; it feels like the only way he’s going to get through this is by staying on autopilot, so he does exactly that.  
  


  
The last twenty-four hours have been hell. Between talking with his mother, and talking with just about everyone working on his mother’s staff, he had been so exhausted and distressed that he’d collapsed in some hallway and had a panic attack. Someone managed to move him to his room when he calmed down enough, but he was completely unable to avoid his stress and pain. Even in sleep, he was unsure and afraid, waking up several times during the night.  
  


They’d given him his phone back five hours after waking up, and after trying desperately to contact him, there was no sign of Henry’s communications lockdown being lifted. 

He figures he must have been concerning an awful lot of people, namely June, because after some not-so-quiet whispering between his mother and Zahra, the latter had bursted into his room for the second time that day, with nothing more than a warning consisting of _‘pack a bag, we’re going to London.’_

So here he is, on a plane to London, specifically Kensington Palace, in hopes of speaking to Henry. It’s more than a little nerve-wracking, and he’s made that very apparent, pacing up and down the aisle so frequently that he’s honestly surprised that he hasn’t a hole into the floor yet.

Zahra has had quite enough of his anxiety, so much so that she calls up Shaan, telling him that he ought to put Henry on the line, lest he wants her to do unmentionable things to his, well, _unmentionables_. 

  
The phone is thrust in his direction, and he nearly drops it in his panic. He loves Henry— needs him so much it fucking hurts— but he’s scared. He’s scared and part of him knows it would be so much easier if they just turned the plane around and went home, and the two of them just acted as if the photos and emails had all been fabricated.  
  


That’s the thing about happiness; it is seldom easy to find, and you have to work your ass off to get it.

He lifts the phone to his ear, biting the inside of his cheek and holding his breath.

“Hello?” Henry asks, voice weary and shaking.

It takes everything in Alex to not burst into tears right then and there.

“ _Sweetheart._ ” He murmurs into the microphone, not trusting his own voice.

Henry lets out a deep breath over the line, like he’s been holding it all day long.

“Hi, love.” He greets. He sounds a little calmer, but not by a lot. “Are you okay?”

Alex wants to lie, wants to raise Henry up and keep him happy, wants to laugh and reassure him that everything’s just fine, but that’s simply not the case. Absolutely nothing is ‘ _just fine’_ about this situation. Nothing at all.

“Love?” Henry asks again, sounding alert and panicky. “Are you there?”

“No,” Alex rasps, eyes once again stinging with tears. “I don’t think I’m okay right now, baby.” He admits, wiping his clammy hand on his jeans as he finally sits back down in his seat.  
  


“Talk to me.” Henry instructs, and the fact that he’s putting on this facade of control and acting level-headed makes Alex feel sick.

“I just—“ He starts, tears streaming once again. “I thought we were so careful, that we could get by until the election was over. That we would—“ He chokes, gasping as he tries to pull himself together. “ _Fuck_.” He breathes, feeling guilty because he knows that Henry’s probably had it exponentially worse than he has.   
  


“Hush, darling.” Henry coos, and Alex can hear the tiredness there, but allows himself to be comforted nonetheless. “It’s okay, calm down. Take your time.”

He hums, taking a few deep, cleansing breaths before starting anew.

  
“I just thought we would get to do this on our own terms.” He explains, tapping his fingers on his thigh. “And everything’s gone to shit. Mom could lose the presidency, and then fucking Richards would be the president. Millions of Americans are depending on her and I fucking _blew it,_ Henry.” He croaks, unable to stop his tears, even if he wanted to. “God, baby, I’m _sorry_. I am so _so_ —“

“Don’t apologize. Don’t you dare.” Henry warns, his scolding empty and warm. “This wasn’t your fault in any way, shape, or form. This was a targeted attack, love— people were looking for something to paint both of our families in a bad light. Don’t apologize for the miserable, treacherous creatures roaming amongst the rest of us.” He tells him, and it grounds Alex, gets some of the pressure to leave his chest. “And as for your mother— darling, she's the first female president for a reason. If she didn’t already have a contingency plan, she's definitely working on pulling something together.”

“What makes you so sure?” He finds himself asking.

“Everyone I know talks about her with such kindness, such genuine and reverent words. Everyone has faith in your mum, and I think it’s high time that you do as well.” Henry states.

“You’re right,” Alex replies simply. “You’re right.” He repeats, and he manages to convince himself of this rather quickly. “How are you holding up— are you okay?” He questions in return, not even wanting to imagine what sort of scenes played out at Kensington.

“I’m, well, I’m managing.” Henry responds, voice sounding strained.

Alex cringes, resisting the compulsion to start biting at his fingernails; they’re already down to the nubs, he’d just be biting at skin and cuticles. 

“How bad?”

“Philip smashed a vase that belonged to Anne Boleyn, and Gran ordered a communications lockdown.” He explains, and Alex is clenching and unclenching his unoccupied hand at this.

“And Catherine?”

“Mum hasn’t left her room, much less spoken to anyone.” Henry huffs. “I’ve yet to find out if that’s a positive or a negative.”

“Gosh, Hen. I’m just—“ He’s about to apologize, but they’ve already had that conversation, so he switches gears. “I can’t believe they’re acting this way. That’s just unbelievable.”

“Well, all things considered, it’s actually, uhm—“ Henry starts, the words seeming to dry up and dissipate before they can leave his lips.

“I know, honey.” He replies, already assuming what would have been said. “I’m on my way.”

He hears Henry’s breath, a shaky thing, ghost over the microphone.

“I don’t think I’m sorry,” Henry confesses. “That people know.”

From there, it’s a flurry of words, the two of them speaking at once, Henry saying something about the timing not being ideal, whilst Alex mentions offhandedly that he’s spoken to Ellen.

“I think we’re workin’ on saying the same thing.” Alex chuckles, a worn, barely audible thing.

“You want to tell the truth?” Henry asks, mainly to confirm with Alex that this is the case.

“I do,” Alex breathes. “I can’t keep up the lie anymore. If I don’t let it out, it’s just gonna eat away at me.”

“I feel the same.” Henry sighs, and it’s one of the most calming, beautiful sounds Alex has ever heard. “I’m not lying about this, not about you.”

Just like that, Alex is crying again. He seriously needs to find some self-control; this is getting a bit embarrassing.

“I fucking love you, you know.” He whispers, knowing his voice is wet and warbling.

“I love you, too.” Henry whispers back, and the proverbial flood begins again.

“Just hold on ‘til I’m there, baby. We’re gonna get through this together.”

“I will,” Henry assures him. “I will.”

“I’m on my way as fast as I can, I’ll be there soon.”

“Please, do hurry.”

“I love you,” Alex whispers again. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Henry repeats, earnest and true.

He hears Zahra’s low battery alert, and curses beneath his breath. 

“Gotta go now. See you soon, baby.”

“Until then, love.”

He blows a kiss into the phone, wondering half-hysterically if it will be enough to hold Henry over until he gets there, and hangs up, handing Zahra her phone back.

The two of them make mild conversation for a moment or two, before Zahra decides that she would very much like to take a nap. 

Alex is grateful when the conversation goes silent, using the time being to mentally prepare for when they land. 

  
When he knocks, Bea is the one who opens the door, brandishing a guitar in her hand. It’s raised over her shoulder, and she’s ready to strike.

“I told you to _stay away_ — oh, thank God, Alex, it’s only you.” She breathes, gathering him in her arms and crushing him in an affectionate hug. “Thought you were Philip.” She conveys. “So glad you’re here, I was about to come and get you myself.”

When he’s released from this iron-tight hug, he sees Henry in loungewear and house shoes, smiling weakly at him. He’s draped across the settee, hand enclosed around a bottle of brandy. This has to be both one of his favorite images of his lover, and the one that breaks him the most.

“Bit short for a stormtrooper.” He jokes, and Alex sobs.

It’s impossible to know who got there first, but they meet in the middle, desperately grabbing at one another, both trying to look at and embrace each other.  
  


Alex is wheezing and hyperventilating, and Henry kisses him, making an attempt to wipe his tears away with thumbs, but really just smears them all over his face. It’s needy and tragic and completely and utterly dramatic; Alex adores every second of it, drinks it up like he’ll never get to kiss this man ever again.

They pull apart, and Henry’s crying, too. They finally close their arms around each other, swaying from side to side, holding on for dear life. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever been so in love and so afraid in his entire life.

The autoharp has been long abandoned, as has the brandy, as the three of them lounge on the lush, vividly-colored Persian rugs sprawled our across the floor. Bea had fallen asleep after playing a few songs, clearly just as exhausted as they were. Henry lays with his head in Alexander’s lap, whilst the latter plays with the former’s hair.

“I’m never leaving your side again,” Alex declares, curling a strand around his index finger. “Ever. It clearly doesn’t work out too well for us.”

“Mmm, clearly.” Henry mumbles, kissing Alex’s wrist, a sweet, deeply intimate gesture. “Are you feeling a bit better?” 

Alex has to ponder on that one, peering around the room as he thinks.

“Yeah, I think so. Still anxious, but that’s a given.” He says, peering down at Henry, at his beautiful blue eyes, enclosed by drastically dark circles. “You?”

“About the same, if I’m being honest.” Henry replies, letting out quite the yawn at the end of his sentence.

“You need to rest.” Alex tells him.

“You just got here.”

“And I’ll be here when you wake up. Never leaving your side, remember?” He reminds him, and Henry laughs, unguarded and gorgeous.

He doesn’t know what in the world he would do without him.

“Lay with me?” He asks, and Alex obliges, allowing himself to be held from behind, comforted by the pressure and and weight of Henry’s arms wound around him.  
  


A kiss is pressed to his temple, and he grabs hold of Henry’s hands, and falls asleep just like that, snoring as soon as his eyes snap shut.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: bi-disaster-fsotus


End file.
